We Still Have Tonight, Right?
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY Story Three of "Election Series" - This story is a post-ep for "Process Stories," and follows the previously posted stories "Game On, Boyfriend" and "Days Like This."


This is a post-ep for "Process Stories," and loosely follows "Game On, Boyfriend" and "Days Like This," which are post-eps for "Game On" and "Election Night." This one's a little different as far as the POV. Hope you enjoy it.  
  
POV: Various Spoilers: GO, EN, PS Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but I really love to play with them.  
  
  
  
We Still Have Tonight, Right?  
  
A West Wing Story  
  
The White House Wednesday, after the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November. 1:10 a.m.  
  
POV: Sam Seaborn, White House Deputy Communications Director  
  
Standing back in his office with the benefit of hindsight, he wasn't sure exactly why he had not noticed immediately, why the realization hadn't just slammed him over the head: the robe, the martinis, Dean Martin crooning in the background. Except that he was so totally overcome with the incredulity of a dead democrat winning the California 47th - and his unbelievable stupidity in throwing his name out as candidate - that he missed the signs only an idiot could not have seen.  
  
"I hope I'm not here at a bad time."  
  
"No. What would make you say that?" The tone dripped sarcasm.  
  
Ah geez. What was he thinking anyway? A long campaign. An emotional debate. A landslide victory. Of course the President and First Lady would be celebrating tonight. And it looked as if the President had taken great care in the preparation for that celebration, looked as if things were well underway, and then he -  
  
"Actually, it looks as if I couldn't have picked a worse time."  
  
"No, no. You could have - "  
  
And yes. Yes, indeed, he could have. So he spit it out, to the point and was almost in the clear, then -  
  
"Hello, Mister President."  
  
Sam couldn't suppress a smirk at the memory of that title as it slipped coquettishly from the First Lady's lips. He supposed it was as close as he would ever be to a fly on the wall in the Presidential bedroom. And he flinched a little at the next memory: the look on the President's face when he snapped, "Eyes front, mister."  
  
Well, Sam couldn't help that. He was a man, and Abbey Bartlet was undeniably a woman. And with her standing there in what looked to be the President's pajama top and nothing else -  
  
He had quickly excused himself with one last compliment on the President's music choice and received a curt "Thank you" that was equivalent to "Get out of here, now."  
  
And even though he had apparently just become the democratic candidate in a special election for the California 47th, and his night was filled with amazing moments, he still knew that at least some of his thoughts would jump occasionally back to the Residence and Jed Bartlet's prospects for the evening.  
  
Yes, he must admit that he envied the President tonight.  
  
  
  
The White House  
  
Wednesday, after the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November 1:45 a.m.  
  
POV: Charlie Young, Personal Aide to the President  
  
He had the greatest job in the entire world. It involved casual contact with heads of state and Hollywood celebrities. It involved knowledge of world-changing decisions and surreptitious meetings. And it sometimes involved danger.  
  
Like now.  
  
He paused once more outside the door to the Presidential bedroom, sighing as he anticipated the reception he would receive from his boss. Not a pleasant one, he was sure.  
  
Sam had been bad enough, but Charlie figured things had not progressed so far that he was in red alert territory. Maybe just yellow alert. And he was right, even though the President had questioned their pact for "being men."  
  
Then there was Leo. Not that he had much of a choice. Orders from Leo carried only a nanometer less weight than orders from the President. Leo needed to see the President; Leo saw the President. Still, he sensed a growing tension in the frustrated expression on Jed Bartlet's face, and the conversation was much more abrupt, much sharper.  
  
"Good evening, Mister President."  
  
"How ya' doin'?" That really meant "What the hell are you doing?"  
  
"I'm fine, thank you, sir. I'm sorry --" Like that helped one bit. " - but Leo needs to see you - "  
  
And Toby, too, waited, which meant just that much longer until - well, it certainly wouldn't help the President's mood. He wondered vaguely what kind of reception Toby had received, but when the communications director stepped from the room, he seemed relatively unscathed. The younger man turned, intent on waiting out the evening finishing up some left-over business, despite the fact that it was election night and his boss - and mentor - had just demolished his opponent. Time for celebration, but not for -  
  
To his surprise, the door opened again, and the President stuck his head out.  
  
"Charlie?" he called.  
  
The President's body man braced for a reprimand. But he wouldn't receive one tonight.  
  
"Go home."  
  
"But - "  
  
"Go home. Or go to the parties. But go."  
  
He tried to protest, tried to do his job, but Jed Bartlet was having none of it.  
  
A grateful nod. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Mister President."  
  
"Yeah. And tell the agents that no one else - and I mean NO ONE - is welcome in this room for the rest of the night."  
  
"The rest of the night?" he questioned, impressed, although he knew from experience that was not out of the realm of possibility.  
  
Jed leaned forward and enunciated each word. "The - rest - of - the - night."  
  
"Yes, sir. Have a good evening sir." Gratefully, Charlie nodded his acquiescence and followed his last order of the evening - or was it morning?  
  
On his way out he repeated the President's orders to the secret service agents and felt his step lighten. Yes, he had the greatest job in the entire world.  
  
  
  
The White House  
  
Wednesday, after the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November 1:45 a.m.  
  
POV: Toby Zeigler, White House Communications Director  
  
He wondered why no one had stopped him. Why Charlie had even allowed him to get that far. Except that he had the benefit of good timing. Leo needed to see the President, and since Leo had already interrupted - well, he would just tell them quickly and leave.  
  
It dawned on him that they had all been so caught up in the victory and in the bizarre revelation that Sam might just be running for Congress, that they hadn't even considered the obvious: That the President was not asleep. In fact, he was far from it. Far, far from it.  
  
And now that he saw the First Couple, felt the sexual electricity in the room, and realized what was happening, or not happening - much to the President's obvious irritation - he kicked himself for being so blind.  
  
"Listen, I'm kind of in the middle of something. "  
  
Oh yeah. He could see that. My God, Abbey looked sexy, sitting on the couch, pillows barely covering those incredible legs. No wonder Jed Bartlet was glaring at him, asking if this couldn't wait until morning. Okay, he could take a hint, better late than never.  
  
"Of course it is, Mister President. I'm sorry," he assured him, blurting out the news and backing out quickly.  
  
"Good boy." The President hadn't actually said that, but his expression clearly reflected that sentiment.  
  
Then the door opened again, and Abbey was calling him, and the President's expression had changed dramatically - and not for the better.  
  
"I was this close," he murmured pointedly, indicating a very short distance between his thumb and index finger. Interpretation: You are in serious trouble if you take more than thirty seconds with this.  
  
Then Abbey kissed him, and he tried not to think about what she wore beneath the robe. He felt the President's eyes on him, and stepped away hastily. No need to risk deportation to Qumar after they'd worked so hard to keep the White House.  
  
And to his pleasant surprise, they were both happy and supportive of his news - and a little bemused by his assumption that their Catholicism would cause them to be disappointed in him. All in all, a better visit that he had anticipated - but he could read the eagerness in the President's eyes as he escorted him efficiently to the door. Okay, no one had to tell him twice. He didn't begrudge them this night, at all. They deserved it, and at least he wouldn't be the cause of interruption for them again.  
  
  
  
The White House Wednesday, after the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November 1:50 a.m.  
  
POV: Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States  
  
At that moment, Jed Bartlet wasn't sure why he had hired any of them. The brightest and the best? Not even one apparently had the foresight to consider that their commander in chief might just have plans tonight that didn't include them, that didn't include anyone except the breathtaking woman who had just shrugged into an irritatingly modest robe and invited Toby Ziegler into their bedroom - the bedroom which he had carefully planned to be the scene of a very romantic evening just for two. Not three or four.  
  
He thought of Sam's earlier intrusion. Or five.  
  
Just two.  
  
The evening had begun with promise, he reflected. He had gotten a grip on the untimely symptoms of the day, had even regained the steadiness in his hand and managed to sign the documents he had put aside in the limo after he voted.  
  
His vision was clearer and the only weakness he felt was in his knees at the sight of his sexy wife clad only in his pajama top. To his dismay, Sam Seaborn had also been privy to that vision. And even though Abbey had a good twenty years on the deputy communications director, he saw the appreciation in the younger man's eyes. Jed supposed he should have been more sympathetic about it. After all, he certainly had no weapons himself against Abbey's seduction. Not that he would use them even if he had.  
  
But, damn it, this was his night, with his wife. She had promised him they would have tonight. Promised him backstage at the victory speech when she called him on the MS symptoms. Promised him in the limo on the way back when she had reinforced her words with her body. Now the dark possibilities of tomorrow seemed far away in the face of the cozy fire, soft music, and seductive talk. And he didn't want to lose that sense of peace, however fleeting it might be.  
  
They still had tonight.  
  
And he was tired of sharing it with everyone in the West Wing.  
  
And now the caviar and liquor waited patiently for attention. Dean Martin had relinquished the floor to instrumentalists. That was the plan. No distractions with lyrics. Just the music. They would create their own words.  
  
Yet, there was Toby polluting the whole carefully cultured environment with his words, which usually added elegance and style, but which now just contributed to the already frustratingly delayed night.  
  
Twins. Great. Congratulations. Good night.  
  
But nooooo. Abbey had to kick into the never-ending maternal mode and ask questions. Even offer a kiss - and he knew Toby had seen what she wore before she donned the robe.  
  
Okay, now he was going. Finally. He closed the doors behind him, then with a second thought, pulled them back a little and ordered Charlie home.  
  
"Have a good evening, sir," the young man had wished for him.  
  
"I've been trying to - " But he closed the door on his own words and turned back to his wife, who had slipped off the robe again and stood, glass in hand, to meet him. Abbey had promised him they still had tonight. But he wasn't so sure anymore.  
  
"You expecting anyone else?" she asked, stretching her arms around his neck and leaning into him.  
  
"Only those who have no desire to see tomorrow," he assured her, letting his body concentrate on feeling her warmth, her softness. His reaction was instantaneous.  
  
"Speaking of desire - not so fast there, Mister President," she cooed in that voice that only made things move faster. "Give me a chance to - get accustomed to your - attributes."  
  
"What would you say, Mrs. Bartlet," he asked, repeating, in his best reporter's voice, the question an editor from Redbook had actually asked her earlier on Election Day when she had hung around Manchester, "is your husband's greatest attribute?"  
  
She ran a finger around his ear, licked at the back where she knew he would have dabbed a drop of the martini. "Oh, he has many attributes," she whispered, echoing her true answer, her breath floating across his ear.  
  
Jed cleared his throat and tried to sound normal. Didn't work. "Really?"  
  
"Oh yeah." She drew her hands down to unfasten the robe tie and push the garment from his shoulders.  
  
"You have a favorite?" Again, not quite normal.  
  
"Oh yeah." But she didn't elaborate, just slid her fingers down his shirt front, freeing buttons as she went.  
  
He soon found himself wearing only his trousers, pressed against his wife's silken body, her right leg wound around his hip, her lips trailing down his chest. Okay, this was more like what he had in mind for the evening.  
  
  
  
The White House  
  
Wednesday, after the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November 2:25 a.m.  
  
POV: Ron Butterfield, Special Agent in Charge of Presidential Protection  
  
It was his job to protect the President. He had trained all his life for that job, had made sacrifices, had even been wounded in the line of duty. And the only pain left over from that was the knowledge that his charge had been wounded worse. Still, there were many situations in which he could have found himself that would have been preferable to the current one: Standing outside the bedroom door of the Residence, hand poised to knock.  
  
The agents on duty had already related the President's specific instructions about no one, and he meant NO ONE, being welcomed into the Presidential bed chamber for the rest of the night. And Ron knew what risk he took in countermanding those orders. But that's why he was the head guy: to take on the hard tasks.  
  
Go ahead and do it, he told himself. It won't get any easier.  
  
Nothing Ron did was tentative, so the knock was clear, firm. The inhabitants of the room, however involved they were, couldn't have ignored it. Neither, however, could Ron and the other agents ignore the fierce oath that roared from the other side of the door. No, it wouldn't get any easier.  
  
"Mister President?" he chanced, hoping his voice would provide some possible defusing of the expected explosion.  
  
But even he couldn't suppress a wince at the sight of his commander-in- chief when he threw open the door. Jed Bartlet had clearly been occupied - deeply occupied. His face and chest were flushed, his hair mussed, and Ron was fairly certain he spotted smears of lipstick across his jaw and neck. He supposed he should be grateful that the man took the time to throw on his robe.  
  
"What?" he snapped, eyes bright with both passion and fury.  
  
"I am very sorry, Mister President," he began, knowing that was of little comfort to the frustrated man before him. "There has been a security breech. Some celebrators tried to climb the fence. I think they are harmless, but until we ascertain that there is no real threat, I'll have to ask you to step down the hall with the agents. I don't think it will be too long." At least he sincerely hoped not, from the flames in his boss' eyes.  
  
Jaw working, the President nevertheless saw the necessity of this move, even if he didn't like it. "Yeah," he acknowledged curtly. "I'll need to - Abbey's not dre - well, give us minute, would you?"  
  
Whew. "Yes, sir. Of course."  
  
And when they emerged, they both looked rather distracted. She had slipped into a robe, as well, and Ron forced himself not to speculate as to what might be underneath it. He hoped the other agents practiced the same self- control. They'd better, if they didn't want to find themselves reassigned by the President's own hand to Iceland.  
  
The time they waited seemed endless, although it was really only about 45 minutes. And even though it was November in Washington, D.C., and the heating in the White House was in need of some reworking, the looks between the President and First Lady keep the room warm enough.  
  
Finally, he received the all clear, and reported with great relief to his protectees that they could return to their previous - activities. Jed Bartlet merely glared at him as they crossed back into the Residence.  
  
Yes, there were hazards with this job he had never even considered.  
  
  
  
The White House Wednesday, after the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November 3:15 a.m.  
  
POV: Abigail Bartlet, First Lady of the United States  
  
All right. Enough was enough. She wasn't sure what evil gods had conspired to keep them from this evening - Republican gods, certainly - but she had had enough. No more martinis, no more Dean Martin, no more caviar, no more vodka. When Ron had finally allowed them back into their chambers, she wasted no time stepping into the hall and giving her own commands to the sheepish men who waited.  
  
"Nuclear bomb or the Pope," she instructed, cinching the robe tighter about her waist. "Those are the ONLY things we can be disturbed for. Understood?"  
  
They nodded solemnly and took up their posts with visible determination.  
  
She closed the door, looking back at her husband, and a flutter of worry touched her. She wanted tonight as much as he did, wanted to forget for a few hours the disturbing signs they had faced earlier, wanted to assure him they would still have tonight - and lots of nights.  
  
Jed sat on the couch, running a hand through his hair, eyes tired, body even more tired. "I'm sorry, Abbey," he was saying. "This night hasn't turned out exactly like - "  
  
"This night is not over, Mister President," she reminded him in the small voice she had affected earlier. "And it will turn out exactly like you planned." As she spoke, she stepped toward him, shedding the robe first, then running her fingers down the buttons of the pajama top, freeing them as she went. When she reached the couch, she was totally naked.  
  
She watched him draw a ragged breath, smiled as he stood and shrugged out of his own robe, revealing how quickly she had rekindled his fire.  
  
"What would people think," he asked, fatigue held a bay, drawing her to him, lips pressing against the hollow of her throat, "if they knew you were about to sleep with the President of the United States?"  
  
She groaned happily and arched into him. "They would think I was crazy to sleep with him when I could have sex with him instead."  
  
"Oh yes," he agreed. "Yes, indeed."  
  
Abbey smiled. Election Day was behind them. Their second term was ahead of them. But tonight was still theirs and she had promised him they would have tonight. And lots of nights.  
  
And no one, and she meant NO ONE, was going to stop them now.  
  
  
  
The White House  
  
Wednesday, after the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November 3:38 a.m.  
  
POV: C.J. Cregg, White House Press Secretary  
  
They had done it. They had beaten Ritchie. No - they had creamed Ritchie. And in a bizarre turn of events had somehow taken the California 47th - or at least forced a special election - with a dead candidate. She cast a fond glance toward Sam, pleased that he was doing it. He was going to run. And even though he couldn't win, it would be a glorious fight.  
  
She wondered why there were all still up. Why they had not crashed yet. It would probably happen tomorrow when they needed to face the world as victors. A glance down reminded her that she had celebrated by consuming almost an entire bottle of champagne. The little bubbles in her head danced happily.  
  
"Does the President know what you've done?" she asked Sam suddenly.  
  
He seemed startled, or maybe he was just drunk - or punchy. "Well, no, I guess not. Last time I saw him I said I'd - handle it."  
  
"Well, you did."  
  
He grinned. "Yeah."  
  
"I think he needs to know," she decided, her champagne-sodden brain not quite comprehending the current position of the clock hands. "Do you think the President and First Lady are still up?"  
  
A strange look flashed between Sam and Toby, one she couldn't read, but which might have drawn her instant suspicions on any other night.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing," Sam said, eyes innocent. He glanced again at Toby. "I think you need to let them know about this."  
  
"Really?" She wasn't so sure. It was late - or early, after all.  
  
"Sure," Toby answered confidently. "He wouldn't want to be surprised. Right?"  
  
"Why doesn't Sam do it?"  
  
The communications director cleared his throat. "Oh, but you'll need to brief the President on the press conference for tomorrow, let him consider his response."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. He wouldn't want to be in the dark on this."  
  
Well, they seemed so confident. And just a quick visit couldn't hurt, right? With a determined nod, she managed somehow to push up from the chair and steer herself toward the residence.  
  
She paused at the door. "You guys want to come?"  
  
"No!" They clipped in unison.  
  
All right. Just a quick visit and then back to the party. Tomorrow they would work. Tomorrow they would be back on the job.  
  
But they still had tonight. Right? 


End file.
